


The Silent Words I Hear You Say

by allmystars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Castiel (Supernatural), Cas and Dean have a weird phone relationship, Depressed Dean Winchester, Fake Names, M/M, Mutual Pining, Office Worker Castiel, Police Officer Dean Winchester, Secret Identity, Suicidal Dean Winchester, They have a real relationship, Unknown Caller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2019-11-07 21:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars
Summary: Dean Winchester has a great life.Seriously, ask anyone. He has a great job, great friends, and an even greater family. It’s all just something out of a fairytale, really.Until it’s not....Castiel is fairly content with his life. Not happy, but…content. It works for him.Until it doesn't.And it's at this place, between unhappiness and discontent, where everything changes.





	1. Who Gets To Choose?

**Author's Note:**

> I AM PUTTING WRITING THIS STORY ON HOLD FOR THE TIME BEING UNTIL I FIGURE MY SHIT OUT! SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE THIS PROBABLY DOESN'T CAUSE YOU!
> 
> Hey guys! So, I'm working on this story right now but it's in its EARLY stages so A LOT is probably going to change. I'll add characters and tags as they become relevant but so far I've only written the first and second chapter, so bear with me lol 
> 
> Anyway, as you can see from the tags, this one does have a happy ending. That part I do have figured out so I hope that makes you happy! 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Check me out on tumblr for updates on my other stories. I'm allmystars-i
> 
> I'm still trying to figure tumblr out though. Just a heads up!

**_Thursday, March 7, 2019_ **

Dean Winchester has a great life.

Seriously, ask anyone. He has a great job, great friends, and an even greater family. It’s all just something out of a fairytale, really. He’s next in line for a promotion to Detective, and he’s got his best friend as his partner and drinking buddy…seriously, what could be wrong with that?

Even as he walks into his local family-owned-and-run coffee shop, people stop and stare; in awe of how _confident_ …how _charming_ …how _put together_ …

And Dean just smiles back at them, his teeth too white and too straight—his smile _too_ perfect—as he grabs his and Benny’s coffees off the counter where they wait for him, handing over a tenner and leaving the change for the awestruck barista.

“Thanks,” he says with a wink, and she practically swoons. He leaves the shop, feeling eyes on him as he goes and he tries to ignore them but it still has his stomach flipping as he smiles at the handsome blue-eyed man holding the door for him. Dean gives a nod of thanks before hurrying to the police cruiser and sliding into the passenger’s seat.

“What took you so damn long?” Benny jokes, grinning as he pulls out into the street while taking the coffee Dean hands him.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just jealous that they know my order by heart.” Dean sips his coffee and scans the streets, not really looking for trouble—just keeping a watchful eye.

“Hell yeah, I am! It takes me a good twenty minutes to get in and outta there,” he shakes his head. “And that’s on a good day!”

Dean chuckles. What can he say? Benny’s not wrong, after all; it’s why Dean always goes in—they see the cruiser pull up and have his order ready and rung in before he walks through the door. He can’t even put it down to a perk of the job since _no one else_ gets the same treatment. Perk of being a local, maybe? But Jo’s a local and no one has her order ready to go when she pulls up in the car.

Whatever the reason, he’s not complaining. Benny isn’t either since he swears they brew a new pot when they know Dean will be there. It’s damn good coffee, too, so yeah…no complaints.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it free, reading the text before relaying it to Benny. “Charlie wants to go for happy-hour drinks. You in?” He raises an eyebrow at him when Benny glances his way.

“Hell yeah, I’m in! Been a week from hell.” He shakes his head as the radio crackles to life.

“10-97 in progress,” the dispatcher reads off the address. “A civilian has called in a complaint about loud shouting and banging coming through the walls of his apartment from number 213.”

“10-4, Lafitte and Winchester on-route,” Dean says into the crackling handheld clipped to his bicep. Benny flips on the lights and turns the car around, heading towards the address Dean has written on his note pad. As much as Dean loves his job—and he does; the adrenaline rush is like nothing else in the world when they get a call—it’s times like these that get to him. He loves to help people and always has, but rarely do calls about domestic violence end well. Rarely do those being abused realize the severity of their situation. Rarely do they take the help they're offered. Sometimes…but rarely.

They pull up outside a rundown apartment building, parking the car and taking the stairs to the second floor.

“Oh, good! You’re here!” A small, hunched-over gentleman approaches them when they open the stairwell door and step into the hallway. “They’ve been shouting for half an hour! I don’t know how they haven’t killed each other yet!” He shuffles agitatedly, wringing his hands together in front of his protruding belly as his housecoat starts to come undone.

Dean looks away, forcing his eyes to stay locked on the older mans’. “We’ll see what’s going on, sir,” he says with a nod before continuing down the hall with Benny behind him. As they get closer and closer to the apartment in question and the noise gets louder and louder, a blush starts creeping up Dean’s neck and into his cheeks because…Damnit, they _definitely_ aren’t fighting.

Benny chuckles softly when he meets Dean’s eyes, but Dean just shakes his head and clears his throat before raising his fist to knock and knocking. The older gentleman stands in his doorway down the hall, peaking around the corner as Dean waits for the couple to answer.

He’s not at all surprised to see a half naked and disheveled woman on the other side when the door swings open. With lipstick smeared up to her eye and down her chin, and hickey’s littering her neck, she looks properly _taken care of_ , and Dean tries his hardest not to blush darker as he clears his throat to speak.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but there’s been a complaint about the noise and we just want to make sure everything’s alright.” Despite his efforts, he feels his cheeks getting hotter and hotter by the second.

“Noise complaint?” She exclaims before looking behind her and muttering to herself, just loud enough for Dean to hear. “Jesus, I didn’t think we were that loud.”

“Um…yes, there was a concern about domestic violence? We’re here to make sure nothing like that is…uh…going on.” Benny chuckles beside him and Dean jabs his elbow into his ribs, feeling only a little satisfied when he grunts in pain.

“Oh, dear-y, the only abuse I’m being subjected to is the completely consensual kind. You know…everyone has their tastes. My boyfriend… He’s been gone for a while, but he’s back in town now and he likes a little spanking here and there, so—”

“Okay! Glad to know everyone’s safe, ma’am. We’ll uh…we’ll leave you to it, then.” Dean spins on his heel, just barely catching Benny’s apology for the disturbance as he explains what happened to the gentlemen. The words come automatically before he’s practically running for the car, desperately holding back his laughter until they’re both in the stairwell.

Then they’re roaring with it, tears streaming down their cheeks as they double over, their stomachs aching as they stumble to the cruiser.

“What the hell do we put in the report? Old man mistook kinky sex for domestic violence?” Dean chuckles as Benny wipes the tears from his eyes and starts the car.

“Hell if I know, brother; that one’s on you.”

“What d’you mean, it’s on me? I have seniority, Asshole!” Dean laughs, sipping his lukewarm coffee as Benny drives them back to the station to write their reports. The only thing Dean _hates_ about his job is the fucking _paperwork._ Ah well, the faster he gets it done, the faster they can get back on patrol.

 

Dean loves these people. He loves every single one of them, even when they’re assholes. Sometimes he wonders how he can spend all day with them and still manage to enjoy their company for drinks after work. Especially Benny, who he’s with every minute of his working day. Jo, he grew up with so there’s really not much he isn’t completely comfortable doing around her.

And Charlie? She’s like the little sister he never wanted. A complete pain in his ass but he loves her to death—how could he not? Between the LARPing and sarcasm, she’s basically made for him, and, if she wasn’t into girls, he probably would’ve asked her out ages ago.

Then there’s Kevin. The genius little bastard whose biggest goal in life is to beat Charlie in computer programming. Dean kind of feels bad for him, actually. That kind of dream is pretty much unachievable.

He sits quietly in their booth, listening to their playful banter as he sips his beer and rests his head back, closing his eyes.

He tries to ignore it—that weight in his chest that just keeps pulling him down—but, there it sits, reminding him of the reality of his life. Of who he is and why _this_ …this _happiness_ …why it won’t last. He really does _try,_ but somehow reminding himself that everything’s good doesn’t seem to be working.

So, yeah. This is his life, and it’s pretty great.

Until it’s not.

 

The oppressive weight feels heavier now as Dean closes the front door behind him with a soft click that seems far too loud in the dark entryway. He kicks off his boots and hangs up his jacket, not bothering with the lights as he navigates the halls, making his way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

As he sips from his glass, he peers at the little orange bottle of prescription sleeping pills sitting on the counter. He sets down his water and picks up the bottle, turning it ‘round and ‘round in his hand before reading the directions for the thousandth time. _Take one before bed as needed. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery while in use._

He removes the lid and pours all the pills out into his hand…debates just doing it…decides against it…pours the pills back in the bottle. All except one. He downs it with his water.

His living room chair is comfortable, but he doesn’t really notice it as he pulls out his service weapon and lays it on the side table with his water, feeling the pit in his stomach open just a little bit wider as he stares at the dark TV screen, wondering…

He picks up the gun again, turning it in his hand and thinking… _what would it be like?_ To have the weight lifted from his chest and out of his stomach. To feel nothing at all…what would that feel like?

He wants that—wants it so bad that he holds the gun to his head, pressing the barrel to his temple and feeling the cold ring of metal against his skin. He _wants_ it, but not yet. He’s too damn _scared._ He scared…and he hates himself for that. He can’t pull the trigger and he hates himself for that _even more_. What if he can’t pull it for the job? What if that time finally comes, as it inevitably will…and he can’t do it? What if someone _dies_ and it’s _his_ fault because he couldn’t take the _right_ life? But why does he get to decide what life is _right_ to take? Who gets to choose?

Whose life is the _right life?_

And that’s his problem, because every time he asks himself that question, the only answer that ever comes to mind is, _mine._


	2. He Doesn't Even Know Where To Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So the first few chapters will be fairly short, but once they get to meeting, they'll get longer. Also, as I finish the story I'll probably come back and change things/add or take away things so...yeah. Anyway, I'll probably be posting regularly and I don't think this story will be nearly as long as my first one but who knows? I didn't think Smoke and Burn would be that long but here we are.
> 
> Okay, let me know what you think!

**_Thursday, March 7, 2019_ **

Castiel just barely manages a nod in return as the police officer smile at him, bright and blinding. He blushes profusely as butterflies flutter in his stomach; still standing on the sidewalk holding the door like an idiot for a moment before shaking himself out of it and walking inside.

The coffee shop is bustling with people eager for their morning coffee, and Castiel patiently waits his turn while debating between the honey crueler or the jam-filled donut. In the end, he gets both and decides to save one for later.

When he walks through the door with a coffee in one hand and a box with his treats in the other, he’s instantly met with the grating annoyance that is Meg Masters trying to steal his donuts.

“Ooh, what’d you get me, Clarence?” She pokes at the box as Castiel scowls, pulling it away from her grabby fingers and moving around her to get to his cubicle.

“As always, Meg, I got you nothing. You make the same as me, if not more, and, therefore, you can afford your own food.” He opens a drawer and set the box inside and out of her reach. She only pouts, perching on the corner of his desk and fiddling with his pencils. Cas snatches them away from her and straightens them in their container once more.

“You’re no fun,” she whines, flicking a hair from his eyes as he swats her hand away. Distantly, the sound of their bosses voice can be heard, shouting Meg’s name. “Gotta go, Sweet Cheeks!” She flicks his cheeks and scurries away before he can snap at her, going in search of Crowley in the maze of cubicles that makes up their workplace.

With a heavy sigh, Castiel pulls out his donut box, closing his eyes and reaching blindly inside. He’ll eat whichever one he picks and save the other for after lunch. A small thrill runs through him from the mystery and he would be ashamed that that’s something he’s excited about if he wasn’t, well, _excited._

It turns out to be the honey crueler and he does a little wiggle in his seat, having secretly hoped for that one all along. He moans softly with the first bite, closing his eyes and sinking back in his chair. He’ll finish his donut, then get to work.

By the time the clock hits noon, Castiel has finished most of his days work and is more than ready for food. He decides to head out today and save his bagged lunch for dinner. Happy with this plan, he heads out, counting his money as he wanders through the bustling lunchtime crowd, reading the storefronts for something that looks appealing.

He stops in front of a restaurant called _The Roadhouse._ It looks a little rundown but the sign out front boasts about _The Best Burger In Kansas!_

 _I will be the judge of that,_ Castiel thinks as he pushes through the door into a sports-bar-like room. The lighting is dim but it looks clean enough and the woman at the counter meets his eyes with a smile so now he can turn around and leave.

He walks up to the bar with a small smile plastered on his face. It feels foreign and forced but he ignores that and greets the woman… _Ellen_ , the name tag clipped to her shirt says.

“What can I do for you?” She flicks the bar rag over her shoulder and braces her arms on the warped and stained wood.

“Well…I’m looking for something to eat. What’s good here?” Castiel slides onto one of the stools, tilting his head to the side with his question.

Ellen huffs a small laugh, pointing at another version of the sign from outside above her head. “Burger’s good.”

He nods, biting his bottom lip—he only has thirty minutes for lunch, so he can’t really go anywhere else.

“You new to town? I’ve never seen you ‘round here before.”

Castiel blinks and shakes his head. “No, I grew up here.”

“Really? How old are you? Wait, let me guess…thirty-four?”

“Twenty-seven,” Castiel says, trying hard to hide his embarrassment. He doesn’t really look that old, does he?

“No shit? That’s my daughter’s age. Well, until her birthday, anyway. Ever heard of Joanna Beth Harvelle?” She turns away from him but looks over her shoulder as she writes something down on a note pad and sticks it up in the window that he assumes leads back to the kitchen.

The name is vaguely familiar and he gets the mental image of a blonde pony-tail hanging out with Dean Winchester. He used to think they were a couple—and he wasn’t jealous…he _wasn’t—_ but it became obvious he wasn’t dating her when Castiel accidentally walked in on Dean and Lisa Braedon in the Janitors closet after school. _That_ was mortifying.

“Yes, I remember her,” he says with a smile and a nod, fidgeting on the stool and looking down at his shoes.

“She was a trouble maker. Still is, I guess, but as an officer of the _law,_ she can’t really be getting herself into that kind of trouble anymore.” She chuckles while drying off some glasses and setting them up on their proper shelves. “Did her and Dean a world of good, that’s for sure.”

Castiel perks up at the mention of Dean’s name, but she doesn’t say anything more and Castiel is too shy to ask. They wait in silence until a bell is rung and Ellen hands Castiel a greasy paper bag, taking his money before wishing him a good rest of his day.

Castiel can only nod and smile as he heads back to the office. He ignores Meg completely and dodges all her attempts to steal a bite of his burger. As he sinks his teeth into the perfectly toasted bun and moist hamburger meat, he lets out a soft moan. Wow, this really is the _best_ burger in Kansas.

 

Castiel scoops up the last of his papers from where they fell on the floor and shuffles them into some semblance of order before shoving them into his messenger bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.

He’s the last one in the office, as usual, and all the lights were shut off about twenty minutes ago, putting an end to his work. He exits his cubicle, waving goodbye to the janitorial staff before heading for the stairs. He likes to take them instead of the elevator when he misses his morning runs. Today, he just couldn’t be bothered, so he jogs down them instead of going carefully and bypasses the bus stop in favor of walking home. It’s a nice night for early March—the air is crisp, but not cold, and it’s not like he has anyone waiting for him at home, so the hour walk isn’t a big deal.

He walks leisurely across Lawrence, mildly appreciative of the safety of the place he calls home. Even as a child, he has never felt uneasy walking these streets in the late hours of the night.

He takes the stairs two at a time up to his third-floor apartment, panting by the time he reaches the top but feeling moderately less guilty for missing his run. As he unlocks the door, the familiar loneliness starts to creep in and he wishes, as he often does, that he had someone to come home to; someone to miss him when he’s gone and celebrate his return.

Castiel is fairly content with his life. Not happy, but…content. It works for him, even though he feels like he’s stuck in a rut more often than not, and no one bothers to call anymore to hang out. _Well, no one but Balthazar_ , he thinks when he hits play on his answering machine and has only one, already-opened message.

“Cassie! Why haven’t you returned my calls? Don’t forget Friday drinks! I’m only in town for a short while and I won’t be missing your handsome face like last time! Kisses!” Castiel deletes the message with a sigh and wanders down the hall, not bothering with the lights as he goes about his nightly routine of brushing his teeth and washing his face.

This time, though, he stares in the mirror for a little bit longer than normal, taking in his blue eyes and tan skin. Only God knows how he manages a tan without ever going outside while the sun’s up, but it is what it is. He leans closer, inspecting his hair for grays and finding none. He _does_ look a little older, though, if he does say so himself, but surely not _thirty-four._ Has he gained a few pounds? He really does need to lay off the sweets and get back to his runs.

With a heavy sigh, he heads for bed, tucking himself in and turning off the lamp beside his bed before just laying in the dark, wide awake. Sometimes he wonders what it’d be like to have someone to share a bed with—he even wishes for it on nights like these. A trickle of longing settles in his chest for something…new—something different and exciting—but he doesn’t know if he can handle that. He doesn’t even know where to start.


	3. The (Not So) Simple Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This one's pretty short but I promise the next chapter is longer! I hope you like it and let me know what you think in the comments!

**_Friday, March 8, 2019_ **

Dean smiles wryly when he sees the two cups of coffee ready and waiting for him on the counter, one with his name and a smiley face written on the side.

“Can I get two scones, too, please?” He asks, sighing when the girl, no more than nineteen, scrambles to cater to his every whim. He looks around the shop at the other patrons standing patiently in line and instantly feels guilty for not being one of them. Why shouldn’t _he_ have to wait in line?

His eyes catch on a pair of bright blue ones and he can’t help but notice just how pretty they are, and, as he takes in the face looking back at him, he realizes he recognizes it; though, only vaguely from over a decade ago.

He smiles at Castiel Novak, his heart lifting for only a second at the memory of his secret high school crush. Maybe he should ask him out?

No, that’s stupid; Castiel would never go out with someone like _him,_ and, to prove his point, Castiel’s eyes dart away without so much as a smile as he steps up in line.

A sick feeling twists in his gut as he pays for his coffees and scones before spinning on his heel and hurrying out the door, feeling as shitty as he ever feels. Why would someone like _Castiel Novak_ , so put together and content with his life—with the simplicity of it—ever want a colossal mess like him?

But that’s exactly what _he_ wants—the simple life with an easy mind and nothing too hectic or special. He wants to wait his turn in lines and not have all the people in the room _watching_ him. Always watching him.

Even now, as he sits in the car sipping his coffee, he can feel eyes on him. They’re only Benny’s, but still.

“What crawled up your ass? Didn’t get your change fast enough?” Benny chuckles and Dean forces himself to grin in return.

“Nah, just tired.” And he is, but not just in the typical sense. He’s tired of life—of _his_ life—and he just wants to _sleep._

“Not gonna be draggin’ your ass, are you?” This time he really does grin, punching Benny’s arm as he drives them through the downtown streets of Lawrence.

His good humor quickly sours, though, as they get call after call. Some are miscalls—they usually get at least three a day—wasting their time and energy as they check out every one. But others are legit—domestic disputes, car accidents, and even DUIs as the day turns into night.

By the time their shift ends, Dean is exhausted and ready to knock out. His faith in humanity is in the dumps as he opens his locker and throws his uniform in, not caring to take it home and wash it.

“Hey, Dean!” He closes his eyes on a sigh, not bothering to turn and face Jo as he packs his things and closes his locker. “You coming to karaoke tonight? Mom’s been asking when you’ll show up again.”

He’s not going—he already knows that—but he smiles weakly at Jo and says, “Maybe next time. Hard day, you know?” He brushes past her on his way out, slinging his bag over his shoulder as the weight—heavier today than it’s been in a while—settles on his chest and in his stomach, pulling him down to that horrid pit of _nothing._ And the worst part? He doesn’t _care._ That’s what the nothing-pit does; it makes it so that nothing matters anymore. Not friends, or family, or work, or _life._

So he gets in the Impala—the only _real_ joy in his day-to-day—and drives home through the dark streets, taking every side road and back route he can think of to put off being alone again in that miserably empty house that seems to suck the life right out of him.

Eventually, though, there’s nowhere else to go and he pulls into his driveway, turning off the car and heading for the front door with steps weighed down by his cement shoes.

He stands on the front stoop with his keys in his hand and nothing stopping him from unlocking the door and walking inside.

 _Maybe tonight I’ll finally do it,_ he thinks, and the thought isn’t enough—as it never is—to stop him from unlocking the door because he just _doesn’t care._ He stands inside for a moment with the door closed at his back and the dark hallway stretched out in front of him. This house is his nothing-pit. Being here has that hole widening and the weight pulling him deeper inside but _he doesn’t care,_ and, still, he doesn’t leave, and he won’t; he knows that.

The only thing that helps, even for only a little while, is bourbon, so that’s what he gets, pouring himself a glass and knocking it back before doing it twice more.

By the time he stumbles into the living room and falls into his chair, he feels a little better—but only a little and not for nearly long enough because, soon, he’s got his gun resting in his palm and he’s loading a bullet into the chamber as his hands shake, but he doesn’t pause. He thought he’d feel at peace when this time came, but he doesn’t. This _hurts,_ but he’s sure it won’t after—at least, he doesn’t think it will. He doesn’t really have a clue, but he’s tired of the pain he knows.

He doesn’t even think to call Sam. He has his own life now and he doesn’t need Dean’s bullshit screwing it up—screwing things up like he _always_ does—because he knows Sam would come home. He’d hop on the first flight out of Paulo Alto and be here before Dean could tell him not to bother. He’d miss school and assignments and his _own_ _life_ for Dean, and Dean can’t do that to him—not when he’s worked so hard to get to where he is today.

He briefly thinks about calling Benny, but he knows he’d lose his job—at least for a little while—if he were to tell him. Benny’s obligated to file a report and Dean would be shipped off to a hospital with pills that fill his head with cotton balls and guards watching him twenty-four seven. He’d have fucking _velcro shoes_ so he couldn’t hang himself with the laces, and he’d be walking through life like a fucking zombie.

He can’t call Benny. He can’t lose his job; it’s the only thing that keeps him sane.

His hands shake harder as he brings the gun up to his head—a bullet in the chamber and the hammer cocked. He’s only vaguely aware of the tears dripping down his cheeks and the clock on the cable box blinking the time at him. 11:27 pm. He closes his eyes—squeezes them tight.

_Forgive me, Sammy_

Then, there’s a ringing in his ears, but not from the echo of a bullet blasting through his skull. It’s coming from his bedroom—his personal cellphone.

He drops the gun from his head as he pulls in gasping, shuddering breaths, feeling the weight of the world dragging him down. _I’m so fucking useless_ , he thinks, while un-cocking the gun and setting it aside to go in search of his phone.

After digging it out of his nightstand, he squints at the bright screen, not recognizing the number, but answering anyway, knowing that if he doesn’t, there’s nothing stopping him from picking his gun back up and blowing his brains out.

“Yeah?” He answers, his voice choked with tears. He sniffles and clears his throat, wiping his cheeks before trying again. “Hello?”


	4. The Strangest Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is about double the length of the others...hope that suits you all lol.
> 
> We're about to get into some fluffy stuff in the chapter after this one, BUT there's still lots of angst to come to prepare yourselves...
> 
> Anyway, let me know all your thoughts and feelings!

**_Friday, March 8, 2019_ **

Castiel’s heart pounds as he stares at his shoes, feeling the blush creep up his neck and trying desperately to hide from the beautiful man smiling at him. Surely he’s not smiling at _Castiel._ Surely not…right? But as Castiel steps closer to the front of the line, he feels that burning stare on the side of his face.

 _Look back at him! Just_ look _at him!_ When he finally manages the courage, though, the officer is gone, leaving no trace of himself but the stares following after him.

What must that be like? To have everyone’s attention all the time? To not be completely invisible to the world? Sometimes Castiel thinks it would be nice to not fade into the wallpaper of every room he’s in. You know, to just be…noticed for existing.

With a soft sigh, he steps up to the counter and orders his coffee, deciding against the donut today since, after stepping on his scale, he really can’t tell himself he hasn’t gained weight anymore. He stares at them longingly, though, as the barista makes him coffee.

“Did you want something else?” Her tone is one of artificial friendliness—one he’s sure is never used with the dreamy police officer—and he forces a small smile.

“No, I’m trying to watch my weight.” _Why_ did he say that? _Why, why, why?_ God, he’s so _embarrassing!_ He bets that police officer would never blurt out something like _that!_

“Uh-huh,” she responds, looking anywhere but in his eyes. She gives him his total and he pays her before snatching up his coffee—sadly without cream and sugar—and practically running for the door. He’s in such a hurry that he forgets to collect his change and berates himself for the loss of almost twenty dollars all the way to his office.

As he stands in the lobby he debates taking the elevator since he actually managed to make to out the door for his run this morning, but he heads for the stairs, deciding the extra exercise can’t hurt his efforts to drop a few pounds.

By the time he reaches his floor, there are pit stains on his shirt and he’s sure he doesn’t smell too good, but whatever. A lot of his coworkers don’t smell too good, either—is rotten eggs a delicacy he’s unaware of?

There seems to be a buzz of energy in the office that’s not usually there, catching his interest and leading him to seek out Meg, who is always the go-to source for office gossip.

“Meg,” he whispers as he pops his head into her cubicle space. “What’s happening?” He steps inside when he waves him closer, taking in all the…um…ornaments decorating her desk before meeting her mischievous eyes.

“Sounds like the boss-man is giving out a promotion. Someone’s getting an _office_ with an actual _door._ ” She leans back in her chair, slinging an arm over the back as her cropped black button-down pulls out of her high-waisted skirt, showing off a sliver of pale skin.

“Ah,” Castiel says before turning away and heading back to his cubicle with a spark of anticipation in his stomach. He can’t help but think, _what if it’s me?_ He stays late to get ahead on work every day and he’s always here early. He does good work—great work, actually—and the anticipation begins to grow into excitement. _This is it,_ he thinks, _this is my next step_.

The news infuses energy into everything he does and soon, he’s working away diligently, awaiting the news like everyone else.

Just before lunch, Crowley saunters into the open space at the center of the cubicles, clapping once to draw everyone’s attention.

 _This is it,_ Castiel thinks, _here it comes._

Butterflies flutter incessantly as he sits on the edge of his seat. He deserves this promotion; he knows he does, and as Crowley gives his speech, stating every little thing he does for them, he begins to smile. He’s finally being noticed for once!

“As I’m sure you’ve all heard, someone’s getting a promotion today. This person goes above and beyond to make sure this place runs smoothly, taking the extra time to ensure our success. They are a team player, and always seem to have the companies wellbeing at the forefront of their mind.” With a grin, he claps his hands one more time before announcing the name. “I’d like to congratulate…Ishim!”

Crowley keeps talking but Castiel can’t hear him over the pounding in his ears. His heart sinks as all the hope inside him deflates. But…but Ishim  _never_ goes above and beyond like _he_ does. He never stays late or takes on extra projects or…or anything! His good mood evaporates as anger bubbles up inside him, but he holds it in as heads out for lunch, making his way to the Road House for _The Best Burger In Kansas!_

 _At least I still have that to look forward to,_ he thinks as he pushing through the door into the almost empty space. Ellen looks up from where she’s counting cash and shoots him a small smile before writing something on a notepad and sticking it up in the kitchen window.

“Shouldn’t be too long, Darlin’,” she says to him and he smiles, sticking his hands in his pockets for the change from this morning—shit.

 _No, no, no, how could he forget?_ His shoulders slump as his sour mood turns dark. He didn’t even bother packing a lunch because he was just going to use his coffee change for a burger, but now he doesn’t even have that, and he never carries around his cards, leaving them in a lock box at home.

He blushes profusely as he says his next words. “Uh…never mind about the food. I um—I don’t have any money.” He starts to turn away as his stomach growls. It’s going to be a _long_ day.

“Catch me next time, then. Can’t have you starving; you’re already too skinny as it is and we can’t have that.” She gives him a small, soft smile and he feels like he could burst into tears from gratitude.

He doesn’t, of course, asking instead, “You would really trust me?” His head tilts to the side as he squints at her in the dim lighting.

“Well, if you don’t come back, I could always send Jo out to find you,” she jokes but Castiel doesn’t quite get it.

“She wouldn’t know who I am; I didn’t really have friends in high school and she was popular, so…” He trails off with a shrug, feeling a little ridiculous for having said all that. It’s not like he _hated_ high school—he didn’t love it, but then just like now, he was invisible. No one saw him and no one paid attention to him, which, now that he thinks about it, is probably a good thing, since he’s sure he would’ve been bullied mercilessly otherwise.

Ellen doesn’t comment as she goes about her work, and, when the bell his rung, she hands over the greasy bag with a smile. Castiel smiles back a little more genuinely.

 

The afternoon is hell. Literal _hell._ Ishim has it in his head that because he has an office, he gets to order everyone else around, so Castiel gets heaps more work piled on him—Ishim’s work that he doesn’t want to do.

By the time Castiel leaves that night, it’s later than usual and he’s _exhausted._ All he wants to do is go home, put on his fuzzy slippers, and relax. He’s so tired that he doesn’t even think of taking the stairs or walking home, using the elevator ride to dig out his bus token from the inside pocket of his messenger bag.

He zones out for the whole bus ride, and, when he walks through his apartment door, his heart almost leaps out of his chest when he sees the other man lounging on his couch.

“What the hell, Balthazar? How’d you even get in here?” Cas shouts, hand on his chest to keep his heart from pounding through his ribcage.

“I told you; drinks!” He holds up a wine glass and drops his feet to the floor.

“No, you left me a message _asking_ about drinks,” Cas retorts, hanging up his trench coat and kicking off his shoes.

“So you _did_ get my message, then. Glad to know your machine isn’t buggered.” He pokes the machine in question and stands, sauntering over to Cas with that infuriating smirk. He grabs Cas’s coat from the hanger and holds it out to him. “Put this on and let’s go.”

“The reason I didn’t call you back is because I’m _not going._ ” Cas takes the coat and hangs it back up.

“Well, you should’ve called to tell me that. Now I’ve come all the way here, so we must go out.” He raises an eyebrow, pulling Castiel’s coat off the hanger once more and handing it to him. Castiel lets out a deep sigh and takes his coat before pulling it on, doing the same with his shoes.

“One drink—”

“Yes!”

“ _One_ drink,” he emphasizes, holding up a single finger to get his message across. Balthazar holds up both hands in surrender before passing him out the door.

“Oh! You might want to find a better place for a spare key than the door frame. Terribly irresponsible you know; a beautiful, single man like you in an apartment all alone. Anyone could come walking in.”

He snatches the key from Balthazar’s hands and tucks it in his pocket along with his cellphone and a single twenty dollar bill. “Someone like _you?_ ”

“Precisely.”

Castiel rolls his eyes while locking the door behind him before following Balthazar out of the building.

 

“Do you really have to do that?” Castiel whines, swatting at Balthazar’s hands as he tries to get him to dance. Balthazar gets…handsy…when he’s drinking and usually Castiel can handle it, but today was crappy and he just wants to go _home._

“Don’t be such a bore, Cassie darling! This is why nothing fun ever happens in your life, you know?” He moves away, dancing his way further into the other dancing patrons.

Castiel doesn’t move, though, stuck to the floor in shock and hurt. Is that really why? Is it because he doesn’t _want_ to have fun? Is Castiel really _boring?_

As he makes his way down the hallway to the bathroom, he thinks about it. Like, _really_ thinks about it.

What does he do for fun? Okay, well…he…uh—he…he knits! Castiel knits and that can be…time-consuming. Shit. Okay, okay, what else does he do? He works and goes home. Occasionally—like tonight—he goes out with Balthazar. That could be categorized as fun! But Castiel doesn’t actually _do_ anything when they go out, except exactly what he’s doing. He orders one drink, drinks a few sips, and goes to sit in a bathroom stall for a bit before eventually leaving early.

Castiel is _boring._

The realization hits him hard and he buries his face in his hands, sitting on the closed toilet lid in one of two stalls.

God, has he always been boring? Is that why no one ever notices him? He’s been going to the same coffee shop for _years_ so one would think they would know his coffee by now, right? They know that hot police officers order, and he’s only been going there for a couple of months. Castiel bets he’s anything but _boring._

So how does he _not_ be boring? Take risks? Be spontaneous? Risks are dangerous and so is not having a plan. But…but that’s what makes people fun, right? _Right?_

So…how can he be more fun? Does he make sure he’s seen? Castiel has been pretty much invisible to the world his entire life, and that’s why he didn’t get the promotion; he’s sure of it.

So…so…what?

He looks at the walls surrounding him as he thinks, lost for options until his eyes lock on a phone number with the words _call for a good time_ written underneath. Should he…

Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s dialing the number and listening to it ring…and ring. He’s about to hang up when a voice comes over the phone, cracked and broken and not _at all_ what he was expecting.

“Yeah?” He hears a throat clear and a sniffle before the voice comes back a little stronger. “Hello?”

Castiel can’t speak for a second as he tries to grapple with the pain he hears in the other man’s voice. He sounds…Castiel doesn’t even know.

“Hi,” he says, cringing at how high his voice goes. It’s more like a normal humans voice considering how deep his normal voice is, but he can’t change it now, right? It would seem like he’s _trying_ to make it deep and that’s _weird._ “Sorry…sorry, I just…found your number in a bathroom stall and I’m trying not to be so boring, so I decided to call and see what happens but that was stupid and I’m probably bothering you, right? Sorry, I’ll uh…I’ll go now. Sorry—”

“Wait.” Castiel does. “Can…can you stay on with me?” And maybe it’s the tone of voice…so broken and defeated—or maybe it’s the _please—_ that has him staying on the line, but whatever it is, the relieved sigh from the other end of the line after his muttered _okay_ lets him know he made the right choice.

“So…um—what were you doing before I interrupted?” Castiel isn’t expecting the harsh bark of laughter he gets in response and he flinches, jerking the phone away from his ear.

“Honestly? Was about to blow my fucking brains out.”

Cas would almost think he’s joking if he didn’t sound so _serious._ It knocks him off balance for a minute and all he can manage to say is, “Oh…well, I’m glad I called, then.”

And the man _laughs._ An honest to God, genuine _laugh._ Castiel can’t help smiling at the sound—it’s beautiful and light; it fills him with the strangest warmth and, suddenly, it’s all he wants to hear for the rest of his life.


	5. A Good Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! These updates are going to be hella sporadic until I'm done the school year. After that, they should be every two weeks or so. I'm sorry! On the bright side, though, less than a month left of school!
> 
> Please leave a comment telling me what you think/if there's anything you want to see!

**_Saturday, March 9, 2019_ **

Dean snaps his mouth shut, startled by the burst of laughter that seems to come from nowhere. He scowls at the phone but he feels… _lighter_ somehow. Like, just by _laughing_ , his heart doesn’t feel so heavy.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring at the empty wall in front of him.

“Why? Are you going to call the cops on me for harassment?” The other man sounds genuinely worried and all Dean can do is shake his head.

“This doesn’t even come _close_ to what I’d consider harassment.”

The line is silent for a moment before the other man speaks. “Jimmy,” he says on an exhale and Dean nods even though he can’t see him.

“I’m…” Dean pauses. He can’t give his real name, right? Jimmy might know him—though Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t know anyone named Jimmy—it could still happen, and that would ruin everything. “…Michael,” he says instead, falling back on his bed and looking at the ceiling fan where it turns in lazy circles.

“Nice to meet you,” Jimmy says and all Dean can do is laugh because this whole situation is just so _ridiculous._ Dean just told the guy he was about to kill himself when he called and now they’re chatting like it’s a regular ol’ Saturday afternoon getting coffee and biscuits. Despite how weird the situation is, Dean _does_ feel better and he’s all but forgotten the gun in the other room.

“Likewise,” Dean whispers, getting up from the bed to fish out a pair of clean pajama pants. He changes into them, not bothering with a shirt, while silence comes from the other end of the line.

“Kind of weird, huh?” Jimmy says, and Dean lets out a sigh of relief as he flops down on his bed, glad he’s not the only one who thinks so.

“Yeah,” he breathes, tucking himself under his blankets and resting back against the pillows. “Why’re you calling me from a bathroom stall at a bar, anyway?”

There’s a deep sigh from the other end before the reply comes. “A friend dragged me out tonight. I _really_ didn’t want to…” He pauses for a moment, seeming to deliberate something before speaking again, his words pouring out on a long exhale. “I didn’t get a promotion I thought I had in the bag and then my friend called me _boring_ so I decided…I decided that for _once_ I wasn’t going to be boring. I was going to do something crazy, like call a number on a bathroom stall. It was a dumb idea, but…”

“I’m glad you did,” Dean whispers, not really meaning to say the words, but now they’re out there and there’s nothing he can do about it. He changes the subject before Jimmy can comment, though. “What happened with the promotion, then?”

Another heavy sigh from the other end. “The guy who got it takes credit for all my work. I stay late _every day_ and he’s usually the first person out of the office after the boss. I don’t know how he does it but he _does_ and I just…I’m so _mad_ about it but I don’t know what to do—don’t even know if there’s anything _to_ do.”

“Fucking douchebag,” Dean murmurs and he’s surprised when Jimmy laughs.

“Yeah, he is.” Jimmy’s chuckles fade. “What do you do?”

Dean’s heart jumps into his throat. He can’t tell him he’s a cop—he might not know his real name, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t figure it out. He clears his throat, thinking as fast as he can for something— _anything—_ to say. “I…uh—I work with the government. Law enforcement, I guess.” He winces at how ridiculously suspicious that sounds.

“What? Like a lawyer?”

Dean sighs in relief. “Kind of,” he says instead of giving a straight answer. He doesn’t want to lie, but…he can’t give the whole truth either. “It’s hard to explain, and really boring.” There’s a pause as Dean scrambles for something else to say, finally settling on, “So, you got any hobbies?”

Jimmy laughs again and Dean starts to crave the sound with every chuckle. He finds himself smiling when he hears it and he doesn’t know why.

“I guess, if you call running a hobby.”

“Ugh, I hate running.” Dean’s face screws up in disgust just at the thought. “I mean, I know it’s healthy and all, but at what _cost?_ ” Another burst of laughter carries over the phone and Dean’s stomach flutters with his victory.

“I ask myself that every morning.”

“You go in the _morning?_ ” Now Dean really is shocked. Who the hell runs in the _morning?_

“Well, I work until nine o’clock at night most nights, so I don’t have time after work.” Jimmy sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Dean, but that just doesn’t make sense, either.

“Why don’t you just leave work when everyone else does?”

“What? I can’t just—”

“Just hear me out, okay?” Jimmy doesn’t try to interrupt, so Dean continues. “You said you wanted to be more adventurous, right? But your job—which you choose to stay at until late at night—his getting in the way. So, leave early and, instead of going home, do something you’ve never done before. I don’t know, it’s just an idea.” Dean shrugs, though he knows Jimmy can’t see him.

“That’s…not actually a bad idea. Thank you, Michael.” He startles at the sound of the fake name he gave Jimmy. He’s surprised by just how much he _hates_ it, but he can’t give him his real name—he _can’t._

“Don’t mention it,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t even know where I’d start, though.” Dean hears his soft sigh, imagining his shoulders slumping. For the first time since he answered his phone, he wonders what Jimmy looks like.

“Okay, let’s make a list, then,” Dean suggests, flicking on his bedside lamp and squinting as he digs through the drawer for a pen and notepad. “What are you thinking?” With the pen poised to write, Dean tucks his phone between his shoulder and his ear, holding the notepad in place with his other hand.

“Umm, well…maybe go to the movies? I haven’t been since high school…” His voice trails off, soft and unsure, but Dean writes it down.

“Good start. What else?”

“Okay… I want to start going to an actual gym, maybe?” Dean writes it down. “And maybe take a pottery class? I’ve always wanted to make my own dishes. Oh, and maybe take swimming lessons at the Y! I could get a pet too! Maybe a cat…or a guinea pig! I love guinea pigs…” Jimmy keeps going and going, and Dean scribbles frantically to get it all down. He manages, though, thanks to his experience in taking statements from frantic witnesses that can’t seem to slow down enough to make sure he gets it all on the page.

By the time Jimmy’s voice stops, he’s filled almost the entire notebook with bullet points and his pen has started running out of ink.

“Dammit,” Jimmy says. “I should’ve written that down.”

Dean’s laughs at that, glad he had the forethought to do so. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll send you a picture of my notes.”

Jimmy’s quiet for a minute before his whispered words carry over the line. “Oh…thank you.”

“Yeah…what do you think you’ll do first?” Dean asks, uncomfortable with all the thanks he’s being given. Sure, he gets a lot of _thank you_ s on the job, but that’s different. He pushes the thoughts away though, focussing in on Jimmy as he tries to decide how his adventure into the unknown will start.

“Maybe…maybe I’ll smile at this guy I see in the coffee shop every day?” He practically whispers the words and Dean tries not to think about the way his stomach twists a little.

“Good…that’s good.” Dean smiles despite himself. “Then maybe you can go to that restaurant you were talking about for dinner? That fancy one where they make you wear dress shoes and a bowtie?”

“I think I’ll leave that one until I’m more experienced,” Jimmy chuckles. “Maybe I’ll go grocery shopping instead of having them delivered.” He clears his throat, sounding far more hesitant when he speaks again. “I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s actually a really big deal to me.”

An ache settles in Dean’s chest. He knows he’s not the only one to ever struggle in their life, but hearing Jimmy say that he can’t even _grocery shop?_ It strikes something inside of him that he didn’t expect.

“Well, keep my number and call me if you ever need to,” he finds himself saying. He glances at the clock—it’s after one in the morning. He doesn’t work tomorrow but he should really get some sleep.

“Thank you,” Jimmy breathes. “And, Michael? Will you promise me something?”

“Depends,” he answers, flipping through the notepad as he waits. Jimmy doesn’t laugh this time and Dean’s heart clenches a little.

“If you ever…if you find that you want to—to kill yourself again…call me? Please?” His voice is so soft and pleading that the refusal gets caught in Dean’s throat.

“You prepared for nightly calls?”

“If that’s what it takes, then, yes.”

Dean’s not prepared for that and he barely gets a squeaked _goodbye_ past his tight throat before hanging up. Something shifts in his chest and, for once, his bed doesn’t feel so lonely. Like, just by having Jimmy on the phone, knowing how Dean is feeling—and how close he is to falling apart—the space is filled with another presence. It’s comforting, and Dean finds his eyelids getting heavier by the second as he turns off the light and sets his phone aside, curling into his comforter and falling fast asleep.

***

Something’s not right.

Dean doesn’t know what, but when he opens his eyes the next morning, he can feel it. He sits up in bed, scanning the room with a critical eye before doing a double take when they catch on his alarm clock. It’s not even six yet, and he feels as wide awake as he’s ever felt.

Even with just barely five hours of sleep, Dean feels like he could get up and run a marathon. Okay, maybe not a marathon; maybe just a quick walk down to the coffee shop for some breakfast.

He pulls the blankets back and stands slowly, listening for any noise that could have possibly woken him up this early, but there’s nothing—only the ticking clock in the living room. He still searches the whole house, though, and, finding nothing, he stands in the middle of the kitchen, at a loss for what to do next.

He’s not tired, so going back to sleep isn’t an option, and the silence of the house is almost deafening. Maybe he _will_ go out for breakfast? It’s been ages since he’s dropped in on Ellen at the Roadhouse, and bacon, eggs, and a tall stack of pancakes sounds good right about now.

It’s weird, how good he feels considering what he’d planned on doing last night, but he pushes that thought down and puts away his service weapon without thinking too much about the cool weight in his hands as he unloads it and locks it in his safe.

He gets dressed and then he’s out the door, forgoing the walking idea and sliding onto Baby’s sun-warmed leather seats. He sighs as the engine purrs, backing out of the driveway and cranking the radio when Zepp’s “Stairway to Heaven” starts playing.

The drive is nice; not too many cars out and even fewer people on the streets. He parks Baby just down from the Roadhouse in front of a stuffy office building and gets out, suddenly feeling far more nervous than he should. As he pushes through the door, the scent of bacon grease and booze wafts over him and it’s faintly comforting.

The place is busier than he remembers, but, then again, it _is_ Saturday; this is when all the retirees come out to play, and Ellen has the best breakfast in town.

He stands in the entrance for a moment, deciding what to do next, when a hostess approaches. “For how many?” He doesn’t recognize her but she beams at him like he should. He glances at her name-tag but doesn’t recognize that either. Anna…nope, there are no bells.

“Uh, just me, but—”

“Booth?” She grins again, grabbing a menu from a table beside the door.

“I’m gonna grab a barstool, actually,” Dean says with a small smile, taking the menu from her hands as he tries to pass.

“But—”

“Dean Winchester, is that you?” He cringes as Ellen’s sharp tone reaches his ears from the direction of the bar. He makes his way over, fiddling with the edges of his menu and grinning sheepishly at her scowling face.

“Hey, Ellen.”

“Don’t you _hey, Ellen,_ me, Boy.” With her hands on her hips, she glares hard and Dean almost finds himself regretting his decision to come in here today.

But then her face cracks into a reluctant smile. “What the hell are you still doing so far away? Give me a hug.” She reaches out to him with both arms and he gladly stretches across the bar to pull her into his chest. If he’s being honest, he’d missed her—really, _really_ missed her—and he’s glad he decided to make the trip, even at ass-o’clock in the morning.

“How’ve you been?” Dean asks, sliding onto the stool and passing the menu over. He already knows what he wants.

“Been doing just fine, honey. Your usual?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers with a grin. She snaps her bar rag at him and turns to put in the order before moving away to help another customer.

Dean glances around the space, finding more silver-haired ladies and gentleman than people his own age, but when he turns back to face Ellen, he catches a set of blue eyes staring back at him. They glance away almost immediately, but Dean doesn’t, taking in the familiar mess of dark hair and the slight blush on his cheeks.

For once, he’s happy just to look at the beautiful, blushing man. Castiel—he remembers. Castiel, who used to read too many books and spend too much time outside watching the bees. Cute Castiel. Cute Castiel who’s been ignoring his existence for as long as he can remember. If he’s being honest it’s…refreshing, in some ways, and annoying in others since Castiel’s attention is the only attention he wants right now.

But the longer Dean stares, the clearer it becomes that Cas isn’t going to give him the time of day. He’s staring down at his plate and eating with single-minded focus, and Dean would be a little upset if it wasn’t so goddamn _adorable_.

“Cute, ain’t he?”

Dean jumps at the sound of Ellen’s voice suddenly in his ear, glancing at her as a blush rises in his cheeks before looking back at Cas, then at the plates in Ellen’s hands.

“What? I spaced out for a minute—who’s cute?” He can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t push, setting down his food before leaving, only giving him a raised eyebrow to let him know she knows what he’s not saying.

He blushes harder but digs in, moaning audibly with the first bite. It’s been a while since he’s had a proper meal—police life doesn’t really allow for home-cooked food. Or maybe that’s just him, since Benny has _his_ lunch packed in a brown paper bag with a little note attached from his wife.

When Dean plucks up the courage to look up again, he finds those same blue eyes blinking at him through dark eyelashes. They don’t look away this time, and Dean sits up straighter, wiping his mouth with his napkin before giving him a tentative smile.

 _Damn,_ Dean thinks as Castiel glances back down at his plate. Dean sighs and turns back to his breakfast. He’s so focused on _not_ looking back up, that he doesn’t notice Cas’s eyes settle back on him, or the smile that falls from his lips when he sees that Dean isn’t looking anymore.

***

Dean’s house is too quiet. And dusty—it’s too dusty, too.

He glances around his living room from where he sits in his chair, directly in front of his TV. He could turn it on, but that’s just background noise. He glances at his radio, but that’s the same issue as the TV. He doesn’t want _background_ noise, he just wants _noise._

Without really thinking too much about it, he heads for the hall closet and pulls out his vacuum, deciding to fix the dust and the silence at the same time. He runs it over all the carpets and rugs, even using the little hose to vacuum the furniture, and, by the time he’s done vacuuming, he just wants to keep going. He dusts every surface and cleans every window; pulling open the blinds to let the sun shine through.

When he’s done everything he can do, he stands in the middle of the kitchen, looking around for…something. What’s next? Now that he’s moving, he doesn’t really want to stop, but all the cleaning’s done and it’s not late enough to go to bed.

Then he’s thinking about Jimmy and he remembers that he never sent him the pictures of his notes.

With a bounce in his step, he heads for his bedroom, digging his personal phone out of his nightstand and snapping photos of all the pages before sending them to the number Jimmy called him from last night. He wants to write something but he doesn’t know what, so he doesn’t. He decides to tuck the phone in his back pocket just in case Jimmy texts him back.

He waits…and waits…and waits but he never answers, so Dean grabs some crackers from the cupboard before turning on the TV and flicking through the channels until he finds what he’s looking for. Ah, _Dr. Sexy_ … He puts the footrest up and leans back, settling in for a while.

 

Turns out to be a _Dr. Sexy_ marathon, and by the time the last episode comes to an end, the sun has set, turning the once light house into the _nothing_ _pit_ he’s used to.

Except…there’s not _nothing._ He’s here, and that realization has a smile pulling on his lips as he turns the TV off and rests his head back, closing his eyes to the dark room. His mind eventually drifts and he thinks of Jimmy. Of his voice—not overly deep, but a little on the rough side. It’s sexy, and he can’t help the heat that shoots through him. He can’t help the way his skin tingles and his pulse quickens, and he knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help the way his hand moves into his pants—for the first time in what feels like _years_. He can’t help that he pictures blue blue eyes and dark, messy hair, either, as his free hand unbuttons his jeans and pulls down the zipper, his grip tightening around himself as his breath hitches.

He can’t help how his back arches off the chair as his hand speeds up, or how just imagining Castiel’s faint blush has his skin flaming and his heart racing in a way it hasn’t in literal _years._ He can’t help it, and he really doesn’t want to.

Pleasure ripples through him as a moan falls from his lips. He pushes his jeans down to mid-thigh, his hand slick with pre-come as he moves it faster and faster, his breaths coming out in heavy pants. He's close…he so _fucking_ close.

Castiel’s face is in his mind—his blue eyes, dark with lust as he bites his bottom lip—a moan rumbling from his chest. Jimmy’s voice in his ears, but deeper—rougher— _yeah…_

He comes with a shout, spurting all over his hand and t-shirt, but he doesn’t have time to ride it out because his fucking _phone_ is ringing. His _personal_ phone. No one calls his personal phone—no one but _Jimmy._

He scrambles to answer it, not sure why he does, but before he knows it, he’s panting into the phone. “Hello?”

“Michael? Hi, it’s—it’s uh, it’s Jimmy. Is everything all right?” His voice isn’t what he imagined—it’s higher…and smoother, but still nice.

“I—yeah.” Dean tries to take deep breaths. Damnit, he should’ve just called him back. He can feel the blush creeping up his neck.

“Well, I know you don’t run so why are you panting?” There’s a pause as Dean tries to come up with an answer that isn’t completely mortifying, but Jimmy speaks before he can. “Oh! Oh, shit, sorry! I just got the pictures and I wanted to thank you, but then you didn’t send a message with them so I thought that maybe I’d call and see if you were alright, but that’s stupid because you said you’d call if you weren’t alright, but we don’t even really know each other, so why would you call? So _I_ called and I interrupted your…your… _shit_.” It all comes out in one long stream and Dean just barely catches it, letting out a breathy chuckle as he finally gets control of himself.

“S’fine, Jimmy. No worries. I actually had a good day.” He smiles to himself because it’s true; today was a good day. They’re so few and far between that sometimes he forgets that they exist anymore. They’re like a critically endangered animal. Or maybe that’s him?

“That’s…that’s great! So, I’m worrying for nothing. My brother says I do that a lot but I don’t think it’s for nothing. Not all the time anyway.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say for _nothing._ Expect a call tomorrow; it’s always worse after a good day.”

There’s a whoosh of air from Jimmy. “I’ll…uh—I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dean smiles softly, but a yawn has him cutting the call short. “Hey, I should really get to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow, though, okay?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, far too much hope in his voice. “Talk soon.” Then he’s gone and Dean’s alone again—in his _nothing pit_ with no light to see by.


	6. Frequent Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm picking this story back up now that the DCBB is over! I've got it all outlined now, so it's just a matter of getting it written. I hope you like it!

Chapter SIX

**_Sunday, March 10, 2019_ **

Castiel stands outside the store, his head tipped back to stare at the large, imposing sign above him—Turner’s Groceries and Hardware. It’s the smallest grocery store in Lawrence—compared to the big box stores, at least—so Castiel thinks he might be able to get through this trip on one piece.

He’s been standing in the parking lot for twenty minutes; people have walked inside and come back out with their arms laden with plastic bags. They all stare at him, and for once, he would rather be invisible because their eyes judge him—ask what is _wrong_ with him and if they should call the hospital to come collect an escapee—but he can’t move. He’s frozen to the spot, his hands clenched by his sides as he tries not to let panic take him over.

Then, Michael pops into his head, and somehow, it gives him strength. He thinks of the beautiful police officer he smiled at in The Roadhouse yesterday, no matter that he wasn’t looking—the intention was there. He thinks of how proud Michael will be when he tells him about the police officer _and_ grocery shopping. Castiel takes one last deep, steadying breath and steps up to the automatic doors.

_Here goes nothing_ , he thinks as he steps inside. He freezes, not sure what to do next. He’s never done this before—the last time he stepped foot in any grocery store, he was four years old and his mother was too drunk to remember she had a child. He ended up hiding between the shelves of bread all night, terrified of the dark and the quiet and the _shadows_.

He pushes the memories away, though, and reminds himself that nothing bad actually happened to him that night—just like he’s been practicing with Dr. Barnes—and grabs a cart, holding the bar with a white-knuckled grip as he navigates through the aisles.

_Okay_ , he thinks, blinking through the glare of fluorescent lights. _Okay, my list._ He digs through his pants pocket for the neatly folded slip of paper with his grocery list scrawled in blue ink. It takes him a few seconds to calm down enough to focus on his own writing. _Bread, milk, eggs, butter…_ The list goes on and on, reminding him that he really _does_ need these groceries. Normally, he would have ordered them on Friday, but Michael’s encouragement had him putting it off until yesterday, but his courage fell through when the bus got to his stop and he couldn’t convince himself to get off. He rode the bus for the rest of the day, trying to convince himself to get off every time they approached the bus stop.

Now, he makes his way to the bread aisle and takes a few minutes to find exactly what he wants. This is so much easier on the internet—there, all he has to do is type in the brand he wants and add it to the cart. It’s so easy; why does anyone bother coming _here_?

Eventually, Castiel finds what he’s looking for and he feels a burst of triumph as he sets it in his cart. This is so much harder than he thought it’d be and he can feel his heart rate rising steadily with every step he takes, moving further and further into the store.

“Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers under his breath as he heads for the dairy aisle with single-minded focus. _Milk, eggs, butter, yogurt, cheese._

The milk is easy—it’s the first thing he comes across—and he forces his hand from the cart to pull out a carton of one percent. That wasn’t so hard! A small smile turns up his lips as he goes over his list again— _eggs, butter, yogurt, cheese._ With renewed confidence and pep in his step, he heads for the eggs, which are right next to the milk, and—yes!—right beside the butter, yogurt, and cheese.

His heart races, but now it’s with excitement because he’s _doing it_! He’s grocery shopping _by himself_ and everything is fine! He can’t wait to tell Michael tonight! His heart sinks a little at the reminder of _why_ he’ll be talking to Michael tonight, though, and he hopes beyond hope that Michael’s day isn’t as bad as he said it would be.

Castiel loads his groceries into the cart without really thinking about it, his mind far away from here, wondering and worrying about Michael and whether or not he’s okay. Is he having a good day? Bad day? Is he at work or is it his day off? Or…or is he—

Castiel cuts that thought off, his stomach twisting with panic as he fights against the urge to drop everything and call. He shakes himself and looks around, only now realizing that he’s stopped in the middle of the aisle and people are waiting to pass.

His face flames and he loosens his death-grip on the cart before moving towards the produce aisle. He tries to get his hands to stop shaking but it’s no use—he flexes his fingers before shaking them out and takes his list from his pocket one more time. He needs so much from the produce section and he doesn’t know where to start.

This was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have come here; he should know himself better than to think he could grocery shop by himself.

_No_ , he tells himself. _No, you can do this._ Two more deep breaths and he steers his cart toward the vegetables, eyeing the broccoli and asparagus he can see from here. There are two people in front of them, so he makes his way to the tomatoes first, but there are so many different kinds, and he doesn’t know the difference. He stares, wide-eyed, at them all, trying to remember what kind he usually orders, but he can’t picture the website in his mind. He closes his eyes, grasping at the memory.

Someone taps on his shoulder and he jumps. “Excuse me, do you know where I can find pudding cups?” Castiel stares at the woman in front of him and all he sees are big, expectant eyes, but he doesn’t know. Pudding cups? He doesn’t have the answer, and he starts to panic.

“I—I don’t…I, um...” Castiel shakes his head and takes a step back, his heart pounding out of his chest as his blood runs cold.

The lady squints before holding up her hands and taking a step away. “Okay. That’s fine, I’ll just keep looking.” And she turns away, but Castiel is too far gone to calm down. He needs to get out of here—he needs to _leave_ —but his groceries…

It doesn’t matter.

Castiel practically runs for the door, leaving his cart beside the tomatoes for an employee to put away. He shoves at the automatic doors when they don’t open fast enough, and, once he’s outside, he takes deep, heaving breaths of fresh air.

When he finally has his breathing back under control, he heads for home, not bothering to wait for the bus and not daring go back inside and finish his shopping.

 

Castiel hits send on his online grocery order with a heavy sigh. He had been so hopeful this morning about going out and _finally_ accomplishing this _one_ thing. He flops back on his old, dusty couch, laying his head back and closing his eyes.

Maybe trying new things just isn’t for him. Maybe he should just stick to what he knows and order his groceries online for the rest of his life—so what if it’s more expensive? It doesn’t cost him nearly as much stress.

He wants to call Michael—to tell him about what a horrible experience grocery shopping was—but his cheeks flame and his guts twist as he remembers the fiasco from yesterday’s call. God, Castiel doesn’t know if he could face that again—he’s surprised he didn’t die from mortification right then and there—so he’ll wait for Michael to call tonight.

Castiel spends the rest of the day trying to convince himself not to give up on his list. It’s hard, though—he likes the predictability of his life. He likes that on any given day, he knows exactly what it is he’s going to do; whether he’s chosen to go for a run or not, or if he’s packing a lunch for work, or eating out. Whatever it is, he usually knows _at least_ three days beforehand. He’s not sure he likes the spontaneity of this list, and he doesn’t think he can take the hits of constant failure.

Then again, he’s bound to fail at _some_ of them, right? That doesn’t mean he’s _always_ going to fail. He tries to hold onto this assurance—tries to remember what Dr. Barnes says about self-sabatage—but it’s difficult, and Castiel struggles with what to do up until he climbs into bed that night.

He’s not thinking about Michael when the phone rings—he’s thinking about the perfect police officer and how he wishes his life was as easy as that—but as soon as it does, Castiel is diving for his nightstand.

He snatches up the phone but pauses before answering. “Hello?” he practices, making sure his voice is the right pitch and smoothness. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hello? Hello?” When he feels he has it right, he answers for real. “Hello? Michael?”

“Hi,” Michael’s voice whispers down the line, and Castiel’s heart sinks to the floor because he sounds _bad_. So much worse than Castiel has ever heard him.

“How…how are you?”

A pause, then, even quieter, “Not so good.”

Castiel swallows down the lump in his throat and shifts so that he’s lying on his side, facing the door. “Do you want me to…” He trails off, unsure how to proceed. He’s never dealt with this kind of thing before—he doesn’t know what to do.

“Just…talk. Tell me about your day,” Michael says, and there’s a certain amount of desperation in his voice that could get Castiel to do anything Michael asked of him.

“Okay, well I, uh…I tried to grocery shop,” he starts, and he can already feel his own self-loathing sinking in when he remembers just how terrible it went. “I had a panic attack and ran out of the store.” He pulls the blankets up over his shoulders, settling himself in for the one-sided conversation. “It was humiliating—someone asked me a question and I just…I froze. I left my cart in the middle of the aisle and _ran_. I couldn’t manage to take the bus home, either.” He shrugs, though he knows it’s pointless.

Castiel is quiet for a moment as he listens to Michael breathe. He knows he’s listening even if there’s no response, and he hadn’t realized just how badly he needed to talk to someone about it until he started speaking.

“I kind of want to quit the list altogether. I mean, I couldn’t even manage to smile at the cute guy yesterday—he looked away before I could—so how the hell am I supposed to, I don’t know, go to the _gym_? I don’t know if I can do _any_ of it and I’m not sure I can take the failure, you know?” Castiel stops. He can feel himself closing up, and he knows he’s about to give in—he can feel it in the sour twist of his gut and the wrenching disappointment.

There’s a long silence where neither of them seems to know what to say, but then, Michael speaks and it’s so broken and quiet that Castiel almost doesn’t hear him.

“Jimmy?”

Castiel startles at the name before remembering. “Yeah?”

“Don’t quit? Please?” There’s something in his voice—words that aren’t said—that seem to tell Castiel, _don’t quit; if you quit, I can, too._ And that’s the last thing Castiel wants, so he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and nods.

“Okay,” he whispers into the dark. They don’t speak after that, but they don’t hang up, either. There’s something about being together in their loneliness that just feels so good to Castiel, and he can’t break this moment—not when Michael’s deep, even breathing replaces his trembling inhales. Not when Castiel’s eyelids droop with exhaustion. Not when they’re both sound asleep, lost to the waking world.

Not even then. 


End file.
